


Proof of the Intensity

by Carlanime



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-13
Updated: 2011-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-19 09:00:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carlanime/pseuds/Carlanime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A particularly trying patient provokes House’s usual lack of sympathy for religious beliefs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Genfic. Written during season four, and thus may contain spoilers for any episode up to and including 4.14. This was written in response to a debate regarding fanfiction and religious belief, and amid accusations that someone was deliberately seeking martyrdom. So, while the injuries depicted are central to the medical plot, they also serve as a metaphor for the repercussions of knowingly defending unpopular opinions, and the patient is a deliberate and affectionate reference to someone who refuses to be either quiet or compliant.

_Martyrdom has always been a proof of the intensity, never of the correctness of a belief._ ~Napoleon Bonaparte

  
“I have something for you,” Chase said offhandedly, stepping abruptly into House’s path. House swerved slightly and kept walking past, not breaking stride, but Chase kept pace easily, for once not trailing after House but walking next to him.

“I can assure you, you have nothing I want,” House said. “Or at least not anything I want _again_.”

The younger man flushed slightly, and his jaw tightened, but when he spoke his voice was calm. “I really think you should see this. It might...interest you.”

House stopped, looking exasperated, which Chase interpreted less as an indication of his former boss’ actual mood than as an attempt to speed things up, a calculated display of a convenient emotion. He smiled slightly to himself, and waited.

“Well?” House snapped. “What have you got?”

“Male patient, mid-forties, showed up in ER about an hour ago.”

House made an impatient gesture. “Presenting with?”

“A broken nose, actually,” Chase admitted.

“Do I need to _tell_ you this is failing to interest me, or can you use your exemplary powers of observation to get there on your own?” House asked. “And by exemplary I mean lousy, in case you’re not following me.”

Chase still looked amused. “Really, I’d like you to meet this guy,” he insisted.

As House entered the ER, Chase gestured in the direction of the howls of outrage. _Now_ he hung back, though, trailing House into the cubicle in a clear indication of having had enough already. “You have to let me out of here. I have to get home to my computer,” the patient was yelling, his voice muffled slightly by injury and bandages, though not muffled enough for comfort. He lowered the volume only slightly in acknowledgement of their presence. “How much of my time are you planning to waste? You have no right to keep me here. Do you have any idea who I am? There are people who need to hear my opinions. They rely on me; it doesn’t give me any pleasure,” he continued, seemingly unable to stop immediately even though the two doctors were clearly waiting to talk to him. House stood at the foot of the patient’s bed and picked up his chart; Chase stood near the open entrance of the cubicle, grinning more openly now as he awaited their interaction.

“Congratulations,” House told Chase. “You’ve successfully isolated a case of I hate him on sight.”

Chase continued to smirk. “I thought you might be particularly placed to enjoy him,” he said, his tone carefully neutral.

“I’m crippled, not deaf,” House said.

“The lightweight I’ve met, but who the hell are you?” the patient demanded, glaring at House.

“Antonio Biaggio Selvaggio,” House read, ignoring the question. “I see someone’s broken your nose for you, and based on ten seconds in your company I can guess why. Why the hell did you think this would interest me?” he asked, turning back to Chase. “He’s an asshole. We can’t cure that.”

"He's also complaining of headache, dizziness, and disorientation," Chase said.

"He's _complaining_?" House replied. "I'm shocked! I'd have expected him to suffer stoically, in silence."

“Do any of you people care enough about human life to do your damned jobs?” the patient screamed, enraged. “Or am I expecting too much from you? Are you entirely blind to your own incompetence? You’re supposed to be treating me, not conspiring against me. You’re just like everybody else! You’re all against me!”

House eyed him wordlessly for a moment, then handed the chart to Chase as he left. “On the other hand, he might be psychotic,” he said cheerfully. “Stick him on Haloperidol and see if that shuts him up.”

"That’s pretty strong stuff,” Chase pointed out, but without sounding particularly concerned. “You sure you feel comfortable prescribing that?”

House looked irritated. “Well, it’s either that or you could try treating his obvious lead deficiency, and for some reason the hospital frowns on our using handguns on the patients. Although in Mr. Selvaggio’s case they might make an exception,” he added thoughtfully as the ranting resumed. “Let me know how it works out,” he added, injecting a note of patently insincere concern in his voice, and headed for the elevator.

“Did that son of a bitch threaten me?” the patient asked.

“I’m reasonably sure he was joking,” Chase said.

“I take death threats very seriously,” Mr. Selvaggio said solemnly, which would have been a rational enough remark if there’d been a credible threat of any kind, but was a bit much in reaction to sarcasm.

“And yet you’ve already threatened several of the nurses,” Chase couldn’t resist pointing out.

The man rolled his eyes. “ _That_ was light-hearted banter,” he said, “as any _fool_ could have guessed from context. Not that I should expect anyone here to have enough wit to understand that--or enough sense of fair play to give me the benefit of the doubt.”

“Haloperidol it is,” Chase said, but under his breath. No point in provoking this guy any further.


	2. Chapter 2

When Chase walked into Diagnostics the whiteboard was empty, which was an encouraging sign. House was pouring coffee. Cameron was sorting through files; Chase ignored her. “I’ve taken Selvaggio off the Haloperidol,” he said flatly. “He started hallucinating--claimed his room was filled with angry feminists who were persecuting him for his religion.”

“Sounds entertaining,” House said. “For us, I mean. Are you sure you should have taken him off it?”

“His pulse and blood pressure were irregular. He also stopped producing urine and started experiencing priapism.”

“Maybe they were attractive angry feminists,” House said. “Who are we to judge?” Chase gave him a mildly exasperated look, then rolled his eyes pointedly towards the whiteboard. Sighing heavily, House limped to the board and picked up his marker.

“You know, he might be enjoying his imaginary martyrdom, did you think of that?” he said. “All right: before he started hallucinating that he was attracted to feminists, he still had delusions of being persecuted.” He scrawled “hallucinations” and “paranoia” on the board, followed by “fever” and “headache.” “What else?”

“He was confused,” Chase said. “Angry. Ranting.”

“Being here does that to me most days, too,” House said, but he wrote as he spoke. When Chase left House was still staring thoughtfully at the list.

* * * * * * *

“Anything of interest turn up in the patient history?” House asked. Kutner and Taub looked at each other, and House rolled his eyes. “You did take a patient history, yes?” he said. “Because I distinctly remember saying, ‘Go take a complete patient history.’”

“We tried,” Kutner said.

“We did try,” Taub agreed exhaustedly.

“Tried and, for reasons I am breathlessly awaiting, failed?” said House. “Impressive, really. It’s not often two professionals fail to perform so simple a task. What went wrong? Or have you just decided that following my instructions lacks excitement? Because I hear unemployment is exciting.”

“We made the mistake of using the term ‘patient history’,” Taub explained.

“In front of the patient,” Kutner added. “Dude got a little...overexcited.”

“Lectured us for the better part of an hour,” Taub continued, “on how badly American schools teach history.”

“We could try again,” Kutner chimed in quickly, eager to please. “We could use some less inflammatory word. Patient, uh, survey. Or, I don’t know, questionnaire...”

“Or here’s a thought,” House said. “Kutner, you grab Chase, since he started this, and go have a look through the patient’s apartment. Rather than let him waste any more of your time.”

“That bothers you?” Thirteen asked sceptically.

“Which bothers me only because your time is mine to waste, not his,” House confirmed, staring moodily at the whiteboard. “Could still be psychosis,” he said, “in which case we should have replaced the Haloperidol with something else.” Kutner paused in the doorway, listening.

“Wait, why did we discontinue the Haloperidol after only forty-eight hours?” Thirteen asked.

“Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome,” Taub answered. “We had to discontinue in case we killed him.”

“So this _could_ still be brief psychotic disorder,” Thirteen said. House raised one eyebrow.

“I just said that,” he pointed out. “Of course, it could be a lot of other things: variant CJD...”

“ _Oh_ ,” said Kutner, and he and Taub looked at each other.

“Oh?” asked House. “Care to expand on that?”

“He’s been to Papua New Guinea,” Kutner said guiltily. “Recently. I mean, within the last year or so.”

“And when, exactly, were you planning to mention this?” asked House.

“Actually, I thought it was part of his delusions,” Taub admitted. “He brought it up as some sort of proof that he wasn’t racist.”

“Not that we accused him of being racist,” Kutner interjected. “His imaginary feminists did.”

“And he told us he couldn’t be,” Taub went on, “because he’d done missionary work in Papua New Guinea, and he’d made friends with ‘the chief’.”

“Some of my best friends are tribal elders,” House said.

“Apparently this guy--if he existed--really liked Mr. Selvaggio,” Kutner said.

“According to Mr. Selvaggio,” Taub said pointedly. "Which sounds, let's be honest, unlikely."

“Well, yes,” Kutner agreed. “But he said this guy respected him so much that--oh, shit.”

House raised an eyebrow and waited.

“That he was allowed to attend the chief’s wife’s funeral,” Taub said slowly.

House looked delighted. “Then this could be Kuru,” he said.

“Seriously?” Thirteen asked.

“No,” said House. “I just like saying the word.”

“I thought Kuru was just a med school disease,” Thirteen said. “I didn’t expect to ever see it.”

“Then this could be your lucky day,” House said. “Go check Selvaggio’s passport to confirm whether he really did the missionary work or just imagined he did. If it turns out he did,” he added, looking interested, “we could try confirming via a brain biopsy.”

“That could kill him,” Thirteen objected.

“Yeah, but it’s _way_ more fun than waiting for the autopsy,” House said. His team looked appalled. “Spoilsports,” House muttered. “All right: confirm his travel and then let Chase go right ahead and inform him of his death sentence. That better?”


	3. Chapter 3

"It's not Kuru," Chase said, breezing into Diagnostics. Foreman, freshly poured coffee in hand, gave him a sympathetic half-smile as they passed each other in the doorway, but didn't stay. Chase's problems, his expression clearly said, were Chase's problems, and Chase should be competent by now to deal with them.

"Dude: it's Kuru," Kutner said. "I've got his passport. He's not only been to Papua New Guinea, he spent Easter in the Philippines and Christmas in Italy. He even still had his boarding passes stuffed in his wallet."

"Does anybody else find that weird?" House asked, steepling his fingers and addressing the ceiling.

Taub shrugged. "Lots of people don't clean out their wallets that often," he said.

"Or maybe he was keeping them as souvenirs," Thirteen suggested, sounding bored.

"Not the ticket stubs," House said impatiently. "The travel."

"You mean the money," Kutner guessed shrewdly.

"He doesn't dress well," House pointed out, "and doesn't appear to be well off. And yet he's made, what, three major trips in a year?"

"It isn't that strange," Chase argued. House rolled his eyes.

"I realize budgeting isn't the sort of skill your upbringing instilled in you," he said, "but you can do basic math, right? Someone find out what this guy does and how much he earns."

"He does freelance work," Kutner said. "I already asked. And it doesn't pay well, but yeah, it probably covers the travel. If he scrimps. So he's not a drug mule, if that's what you're thinking."

"But _why_ the travel?" House asked.

"Does it matter?" asked Thirteen. "I thought what mattered is that he _has_ travelled, so it could be Kuru."

"Be serious," said Chase. "It's not Kuru. Do you honestly think any first-world traveller would have participated in cannibalistic funereal practices? If any of the Fore even still do that, which I'm sure they don't. And come on: this guy's probably seen the same Discovery Channel documentaries everyone else has. He's not stupid."

"He's stupid enough to have travelled on his own dime to Papua New Guinea to do missionary work," House pointed out.

Chase flushed. "He's devout," he said. "That doesn't make him stupid."

House sighed exaggeratedly. "I'd have thought that when you left the seminary, it would at least have had the benefit of sparing the poor from having you condescending to do good works to them. Guess not. Go ask him about his trip. See if he ate anyone interesting."

Chase shoved back his chair and left, wordlessly.

"Anyone else going to be massively disappointed if this isn't Kuru?" House asked cheerfully, and all three doctors sheepishly raised their hands.

* * * * * * *

"So why are we here again?" Thirteen asked, looking through the patient's closet.

Kutner whistled. "Check this out," he said, almost admiringly. "Man, this guy is universally loathed. He must be a full-time bastard on the internet."

Taub stood behind him, reading over Kutner's shoulder as he flipped through Selvaggio's inbox. "That's not email, that's hate mail," he said, frowning.

Kutner scoffed. "You think he doesn't deserve it?" he asked. "You've met him. These people are probably exercising restraint."

"Whether or not he deserved it is beside the point," Taub said. "Think about it: this takes one of the symptoms off the table."

"It's not paranoia if they're really out to get you?" Kutner said, and Taub nodded.

"I think we've been misreading him," he said. "He's not delusional. He really has managed to make a lot of people hate him, even if they _weren't_ in his room yesterday. So maybe the anger wasn't a symptom, either, just a habit."

"What does that leave us with, then?" Thirteen asked. "Confusion and a fever? That could be _anything_."

* * * * * * *

Chase was frowning at the patient's chart. "Your white count is slightly elevated," he said, but more to himself than to Mr. Selvaggio.

"Perhaps I'm sick," Selvaggio said dryly.

Chase looked up at him. "How do you feel?" he asked gently. "Apart from your nose, I mean."

The patient scowled. "I feel as if a lot of semi-civilized so-called professionals are looking down their noses at me, my education, and my faith. Which is no more than I expected; your training predisposes you to unwarranted scorn."

Chase refrained from rolling his eyes, but barely; a close observer would have read annoyance and dismissal in his eyes. His qualifications, in his opinion, were nothing to take lightly, and hardly a reason to sneer. His voice remained perfectly pleasant, though, and his habitual expression of affability was firmly in place as he smiled and answered, "I meant physically." In the face of such a determined refusal to fight, Selvaggio relented slightly.

"Awful," he admitted. "I've had a headache for days, and I feel dizzy and disoriented and just _unwell_. There's something physically wrong, I'm sure there is. If you people would extend me the courtesy of paying attention to that, instead of concocting lies and casting aspersions on my mental health, you might be of some use to me."

Chase hesitated, then asked, "When you were in Papua New Guinea, did you eat...anything unusual?"

"I'm a vegetarian," Selvaggio said wearily. "And, incidentally, _literate_. I know what Kuru is, and I don't have it--and if you knew anything about present-day tribal funeral customs you'd _know_ that."


	4. Chapter 4

Chase frowned down at the patient's chart, slightly embarrassed at having been put in the unfair position of being blamed for House's Kuru diagnosis--a diagnosis he'd never even supported, he thought, annoyed. "How long have you had a heart murmur?" he asked, changing the subject.

Selvaggio snorted. "Is that even my chart?" he asked. "I've never had a heart murmur."

"Says here that when they sent you upstairs from emerge the admitting doctor reported a heart murmur," Chase argued cheerfully, reaching for his stethoscope. "Let's have a listen."

* * * * * * *

"Infective endocarditis," Chase said triumphantly, pushing open the door to Diagnostics. "I've ordered multiple blood cultures to confirm, but it explains everything."

"Well, _that_ was boring," House said, and erased the whiteboard. "The next time you encounter a ranting religious freak, keep him to yourself, will you?"

"He's not a freak," Chase said, sighing. "He's religious. The one thing doesn't imply the other."

* * * * * * *

"Chase," House called out the next day, and Chase slowed and entered House's office, his movements more languid and casual--and hence even more damnably graceful--than they'd ever been when his own pragmatism had demanded a show of obedience. House noticed the nonchalance, the complete and utter erasure of what had seemed to be an ingrained need to gratify, and found himself bemused by the near-sociopathic levels of cynical practicality implied by this. Annoying. It was always satisfying to have at least one minor stumbling block at hand to toss in front of Chase's easy stride through life.

"Selvaggio's blood cultures are all coming back negative for _Streptococcus sanguis_ ," House said, sounding pleased. "So the endocarditis could be the result of any number of things, really: _Staph. aureus_ , or something viral...you'll have to test him for--"

" _Staph._ ," Chase interrupted, groaning. He looked as if he'd just realized something both unpleasant and obvious. House gave him a sceptical look.

"Well, yes, it could be, but--" he began, but Chase had already turned and left his office, walking briskly. Shrugging, House picked up his cane and followed him.

* * * * * * *

"Mr. Selvaggio," Chase said, "after your trip to the Philippines, did you get sick? I mean immediately afterwards. Any nausea, vomiting, diarrhea? Maybe a rash?"

Selvaggio looked at him suspiciously. "I did, yes," he said, "and I was on antibiotics for ten days, and it cleared up. Why? Who are you accusing me of eating now?"

"Nobody," Chase said, sounding calm and slightly distant. The automatic tone and cadence of doctor-speak had entered, or perhaps been deliberately inserted into, his voice: that odd blend of reassurance and slight coolness. "But I believe your symptoms are the result of a bacterial infection. The antibiotics you were given may have had a bacteriostatic effect, but not have killed off all the organisms; the ones remaining have infected your heart valves." The patient looked alarmed; Chase's voice became more soothing, but it was a professional, rehearsed sort of soothing; that careful distance remained. "If the tests come back positive, you're going to have to be on Flucox for at least six weeks, and Gentamicin for five days, but the prognosis is good: your cardiac rhythm is normal, and your white count is near-normal, and those are both excellent predictors of recovery."

"Why are you thinking _Staph._?" House interrupted quietly from the doorway.

Chase hesitated, looking extremely reluctant to speak. "Because he spent Easter in the Philippines," he admitted finally, "and I suspect he may have obtained a major skin breaching injury there." That was all he said, but House was already smirking in satisfaction.

" _Really_?" he said, mockingly. "I wonder why?" Chase didn't reply. "Mr. Selvaggio," House said politely, a smile twitching the corner of his lips, "would you mind if I take a look at your back?" Glaring wordlessly, Selvaggio leaned forward and pulled off the top of his pyjamas. Chase looked once, and averted his eyes. The stripes of flagellation, healed but still raised and red, were undeniable--and unanswerable.


End file.
